


Mother Courage

by Arati_Mhevet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, honestly I could write this set-up forever, notes from the Cardassian underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet
Summary: Mothers are complicated. Kira and Garak, after 'The Dogs of War'.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	Mother Courage

**Mother Courage**

After ‘The Dogs of War’.

* * *

Directly above the cellar was the kitchen, and beyond the kitchen was a small yard where a strong smell of disinfectant more or less covered the sourer stink of drains. Kira found Garak here, sitting on a stone bench, sleeves rolled up, knife out, peeling vegetables. She stood for a while in the doorway, arms folded, watching him work. Swift, precise, efficient.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, coming down the steps into the yard. Late afternoon, the cusp of evening. The heat in the confined space was oppressive.

Garak, not stopping, said, “I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat in this very spot doing exactly this. My life has come full circle.”

“She could use the replicator, you know. We’re none of us exactly fussy about what we eat—”

“Don’t let her hear you suggest the replicator. She loathes the thing.” He glanced back towards the kitchen door. “Where’s Damar?”

“Washing up. Sucking up.”

“Oh, and I imagine Mila is _lapping_ it up.”

“Enough to send me out here.” Kira sank down onto the bench beside him. “Prophets! Where did he dig up this _charm_ all of a sudden?”

“Come the moment, come the man,” said Garak, equably. “At least it keeps her eye off me.”

Kira stretched her legs out, straight, crossing them at the ankles. Stared at the scuff marks on her boots. Thought about taking them off; thought better of the idea. “What’s she feeding us tonight?”

He nodded at the bowl of peeled vegetables between them. “ _Khavet.”_

“What will she do to them?”

“I imagine she’ll roast them.”

“Roast them?”

“Like _mahlava_.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering when he’d tried _mahlava_. On the station? Earlier? _And when were you first on Bajor, Garak?_

Kira took one of the _khavet_ from the pile. Rough and brown and earthy. Garak, plucking the thing from her hand, turned his knife on it. The scraps fell into the cloth laid out upon his lap. He said, “She thinks they’re one of my favourites.”

“And are they?”

“Well, they were, about forty years ago.” He eased out an eye with the point of his knife. “There’s a sweet sauce she makes to go with them. Don’t worry. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

Comfort food. What you gave a child. Softly, Kira said, “Mila’s your mother, isn’t she?”

She watched him form, then swallow, the reflexive lie. “Yes, she is.”

“She must… she must have missed you.”

He didn’t reply. Kira looked around the hot little yard and the high stone walls boxing them. The square of sky above was bruising pink and purple. Sunset unfurling, unseen, across the capital. _Cardassia_ , she thought. _What did I do to end up here?_ Beside her, Garak carried on dutifully with his task. 

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if he had not just revealed to her more about himself than in almost a decade of acquaintanceship, “Mila’s desire to offer you home-made rather than replicated food is not an insignificant gesture.”

“How’s that?”

“She’s old enough to remember the last bad famine on Prime. She went hungry many times as a child. To be able to offer you food – good food, real food – means you’re being welcomed in the most honest way she knows. Damar too.”

“Damar I can understand, but why welcome me?”

Garak, stopping work, lifted his arm to wipe his brow. “Well,” he said, “Mila never entirely approved of the Occupation.”

“She _what_ —?”

“She thought it ruined families. And she always said we’d lose in the end.”

“She was right on both counts.”

“I imagine she was thinking of Cardassian families, commander, but you’ll get no argument from me. Not this late in the day.”

Kira stared at the deepening sky. Heat, worry, fear – whatever it was, she was exhausted, and he was right that this fight was long won. Besides, mothers were complicated.

Quickly, deftly, Garak dealt with the last of the _khavet_ , and, with professional skill, cleaned and pocketed his knife. With equal care, he wrapped the cloth neatly around the peelings and placed the bundle to one side. Job done, he leaned back and closed his eyes, tilting his head up to savour the light and the heat. _Welcome home_ , she thought.

They sat silently together. Beyond the enclosing walls, Kira heard the whisper of skimmers; distant voices; the constant thrum of the city. In the corner of the yard stood half-a-dozen clay pots, filled with unknown herbs. Gardening tools hung on the far wall. Fanning out from the wall, in a semi-circle on the ground, was a mosaic of little tiles laid out like half a rayed sun. Grey and red and yellow and brown, and here and there some startling bright blue. She watched as a lizard skittered across to hide behind the pots.

 _Welcome home_.

“Garak,” she said, “is this _your_ house now?”

His eyes slitted open. “What?”

“This house. Tain’s house. Your father?”

“Oh, commander, no…” He closed his eyes and settled back against the wall. “No, a _skrit_ can’t inherit.”

Kira’s breath caught. She’d heard that slur, many times, thrown at Bajorans, but could not think of a time she’d heard a Cardassian use it towards one of their own. A faint stink of the gutter. A cheating, lying, dirty bastard.

“Apart from the debt,” he murmured, almost sleepily. More from a single conversation than years. Very gently, she touched his arm. His eyes shot open.

“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hear _shri’tal_.”

“Certainly not,” he said, somewhat acidly, “since _shri’tal_ is for the dying. Rest assured that I fully intend to survive this war.”

“Good,” she said. “Good.”

From the kitchen came laughter. A woman’s voice called out. “Elim Garak! How long does it take to peel a few _khavet_?”

Kira laughed too. Garak gave the crooked smile of a boy caught out in some mischief. “For her sake if nothing else.”

He stood up, brushing his hands clean, and, with a sigh, reached for the bundle of peelings. Quickly, before she lost the chance, she said, “Garak.”

“Yes, commander?”

“Did you pay that debt to Tain?”

Garak pressed the bundle into her hands and stooped to pick up the _khavet_. “Well,” he said, face hidden, “we survived him, didn’t we?”

“Elim!”

He stood up straight, cradling the bowl in his arms. “Mothers,” he said, with a smile. “You know what it’s like.”

Kira didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure she did.

_“Elim!”_

“Full circle,” he muttered, and went, grumbling, back up the steps into the kitchen. “All right, _sasi_ … I’m here… I’m coming…” Kira followed, carrying the scraps, into a kitchen suffused with the sweet smell of comfort food and the sound of constant scolding.

* * *

_19-20 th December 2020_

**Author's Note:**

> The title is an allusion to [Mother Courage and Her Children](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother_Courage_and_Her_Children) by Bertolt Brecht.


End file.
